


blue-gray

by tres (threefouram)



Series: Author's Favorites [1]
Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, allusions to depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefouram/pseuds/tres
Summary: ' “O-Okay, Placido. Is there— Is there something you need me to do?”“I’m sad,” slipped out in response, soft and quiet. “Something hurts, and I can never make it go away.”“Is your mother home?” Juanito asked, loud as though he knew that he had to be if he wanted Placido to hear him through all the pounding in his head. He could still hear the dial tone ringing in his ears. He could hear everything. “We can watch a movie some other time. How about I just come over today?” 'or: in which everything looks dull and faded, no matter how bright Juanito's voice sounds over the phone.





	blue-gray

Placido let the dial tone of his phone sound from somewhere next to his pillow.  
  
The monotonous sound echoed in his skull, reverberating and bouncing off his insides to prove that he was as hollow as he felt. He and Juanito had plans for the afternoon, but it seemed that his brain had other ideas for him. The light blue of his walls looked gray today, and his clock simply did not tick or tock fast enough. The sheets kept slipping away from his fists whenever he tried to latch on to something.  
  
“Placido! Hey!” Though the static crackled and broke his voice, Juanito’s energy was clear. Placido had always bore the burden of having to catch up to everyone else’s happiness and tiring himself out, but Juanito and his infectious… _vibrancy_ was normally an exception. But his energy wasn’t contagious over the phone like it was in person. “Can’t wait to see me already?”  
  
He hadn’t spoken — or done anything at all, had not even gotten up to go to the bathroom — since waking up four hours ago. His throat felt dry as his voice scraped through, a hoarse, “Uhm, about that,” leaving his mouth.  
  
“Woah,” Juanito’s voice resounded in his room, piercing through his thoughts before he could launch into an explanation for himself. “Are you okay?”  
  
His heart clenched, releasing a numbing ache for his arteries to spread through him. “I’m really tired, Juanito,” was leaving his mouth before he could help it. He wanted to pry his hands where his chest hurt, but his arms laid still at his sides— No, not still. They were shaking. He was shaking, wordlessly sobbing and violently trembling while his face was suspended in a neutral expression.  
  
“O-Okay, Placido. Is there— Is there something you need me to do?”  
  
“I’m sad,” slipped out in response, soft and quiet. “Something hurts, and I can never make it go away.”  
  
“Is your mother home?” Juanito asked, loud as though he knew that he had to be if he wanted Placido to hear him through all the pounding in his head. He could still hear the dial tone ringing in his ears. He could hear everything. “We can watch a movie some other time. How about I just come over today?”  
  
“I’m alone,” he said.  
  
The words hovered over them for a moment, weighing more than just an answer to a question. And then Juanito broke through the silence, telling him, “Not for long. Hm… Let’s see. Okay, I’m going to bring my violin over to your house and I can play for you. How does that sound? I finally got a hang of that piece you told me to work on, the one that your grandmother used to love so much. We can talk, too, if you’d like, but we don’t have to. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”  
  
He grunted his affirmation, unable to get much more than that out as his throat closed up on him. “Anyway,” Juanito continued, something about his voice different though Placido couldn’t pinpoint it if he tried. “Don’t worry about the movie, there’s always going to be a new one out anyway. There’s this really cool one that’s coming out in a few weeks. We should see that instead, if you’re still up for it.”  
  
“Oh! I’ve been trying my hand at composing again,” Juanito told him, filling in the static silence easily. “It’s far from perfect, but it’s such a fulfilling experience to get to make something, you know? But I suppose anything involving music just makes me feel so… alive, you know? Like the violin is an extension of myself that allows me to live, and dream, and just breathe.”  
  
“I don’t,” he answered quietly, the lump in his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. His voice wavered as he spoke, and he found himself thinking that maybe it would be best if his words could swallow _him_ whole. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Juanito.”  
  
A soft “ _oh_ ,” came from the phone, uncertain.  
  
“Are you going to be here soon?” Placido asked into the air, eyes screwed shut. There was some shuffling from the other side before he heard Juanito breathe into the receiver in harsh pants. He waited for the breathing to grow stable before asking again, only to receive Juanito’s response of, “Could you open the door for me?”  
  
He didn’t do anything for a moment, but his attempts at moving were just as ineffective. He shook his head even though he knew Juanito couldn’t see him, letting his brain rattle around his skull. “ _Can’t_ ,” he grunted out. He let out a heavy sigh as he tried to exhale the weight off his chest. _Nope._ Still there.  
  
“Alright,” Juanito said. “I’ll use the key that your mother gave me.”  
  
“My… _what?_ ”  
  
There was no reply for a short while, and then—  
  
“Hey,” Juanito spoke, but it wasn’t through the phone this time.  
  
He didn’t bother trying to sit up or raise his head just yet, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling and thinking about how hard it was becoming to identify whether it was green or gray. Everything looked gray today, if he was being honest — a pale, blue-gray that barely looked like a real color. “You’re here,” he found himself saying, a twinge of awe and surprise lacing his tone. They were on the phone just a moment ago. He didn’t know why he was so surprised. “You didn’t have to do that, Juanito. You’re an _idiot_ for doing that.”  
  
Juanito laughed lightly, as though endeared to be called an idiot by his best friend.  
  
He sighed, expression shifting. “Does this…?”  
  
“All the time,” Placido admitted to the ceiling, a blank expression on his face. He could feel that his body was still shaking, throat constantly constricted by some invisible force. He hadn’t spoken about it with his mother yet — he didn’t need her worrying any more than she already did — but it happened all the time and it was only getting worse. “And yes, it’s always this bad.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Juanito mumbled. Placido would have to say that he was wrinkling his nose in thought while his mouth formed a small circle, and found himself letting out a chuckle at how… _cute_ the mental image he conjured up was. The laughter, though, died out quickly. He sighed, a shrug falling off his trembling shoulders. “Yeah, _oh_.”  
  
_You’re shaking_ , he could feel Juanito wanting to say. If he did, Placido would wave it off with their usual banter, say _I know that, dumbass_ without missing a beat. But neither of them said a word, and it was almost nice amidst the churning in his stomach and his stupid, stupid useless limbs that laid limp and pathetic on his bed. It was comforting in its own way despite not really helping much.  
  
It was something, at least. It was _something_ , and God, Placido really needed something today.  
  
“Is it okay that I’m here?”  
  
Placido attempted a smile at the ceiling. “More than, I think.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one is important to me.
> 
> There are too many days that I wake up feeling like I'm underwater. There are too many days that I wake up wishing that I was, that I would just drown, drown, drown. But no, I'm still here, and there are too many days that I feel like that's a bad thing. There are too many days, and right now, I don't think I have that much will to live through all of them.
> 
> I come back to this little thing that I wrote every now and then, and I will never not _feel_ for it. I don't have someone like Juanito in my life, but the numb sadness that I portray Placido to have is something that I connect with. I don't ever talk about it, I just write things like this, and maybe it's enough for now. (It's not. I know it's not.)
> 
> There's something more to be said here, but I neither have the right words nor the energy to. I am unsatisfied with how this turned out, if only because I wish I had something more profound to give. (And still, the palms of my hands ache all the way down to the veins that run down my arm and I can almost breathe knowing that I had the guts to put this out into the world.)
> 
> I'm tired. I am so, so tired.  
>  
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille). about el noli. about anything at all.


End file.
